Giggle at a funeral
by Skylaangelwings
Summary: Violet attends her own funeral at the murder house. She doesn't know about Tate's misadventures and a sudden trip down to the secret basement side room makes Tate and Violet confront their true feelings for one another. P.s it's a tad bittersweet and I suggest you listen to Hozier's Take me to church as you read O:-) Enjoy!
**A/N: Hey guys and gals, this is a Violate fanfic from Violet's perspective. This is set at her funeral (hosted in the murder house) and there are quite a few subtle differences from the original AHS plotline. Firstly Tate and Violet's relationship (in this story) was completely friends-only before now (so try imagine them being "just friends" during all that crazy stuff with tate's past and Violet's pill-popping etc. Umm rated T for some "spice", it's a oneshot story. Also Tate never got chance to hide violet's body (hence the funeral) and they both know they are ghosts. P.s Violet does NOT know about Tate shooting those kids/raping her mum/killing the other house residents… 'Kayyy I sadly do not own the AHS characters *cries* but I do have a crush on Tate :)**

The bitter tang of tears and sombreness coats the air like the crust of blood from an old wound. I'm incorporeal, a ghost, unseen and unheard at my own will, with only Tate and the other few undead as constant company. My mum looks untethered, lost, and I already know she's going to pack up and leave this dismal town as soon as possible. Screw Dad and his mistress Hayden, screw the infamous "murder-house" and its quirky residents. Is what she's thinking. I see it on her creased and tear-stricken face. The guests, mostly distant aunts and uncles who give my parents indifferent pats and insincere hugs, mill around looking distinctly uncomfortable at attending their niece's suicide wake. Through the throng, I see Addie smoothing down her special ruffled polka dot dress and mile sadly at how she always wished t become a "pretty girl", never realising her kindness and optimism already made her one. Constance dithers to the side, stealing the occasional silver-ware and glaring at anyone who catches her eye. Strangely enough, I even catch sight of Leah my only living friend in this hell-house, who looks battered down by the wake in my absence and looks desperately uneasy at the smog of strangers roaming the house. I briefly muse at becoming corporeal to offer her a cigarette, but discard the thought quickly, realising bitterly it will make her super-freaked out. Enough to OD on those pain pills. Just like I did…

A hand brushing mine startles me out of my reverie and I look up to catch those beautiful dark eyes sparkling mischievously. Tate Langdon: the perfect boy next door- shaggy blonde hair, sarcastic smile, quick-witted tongue. Oh yes, and completely and irrevocably dead. He clasps my fingers in his strangely warm hand and smirks daringly at me. My back cloud of depression dissipates slightly into a fine mist which I can push through easily enough.

"Want to see something cool?" He taunts, appealing to my curiosity while steering me away from the passageways to the creepy basement. I follow him, as I always have before, as naive and ensnared as a moth to a flame. And _damn_ was this flame hot.

"And this is meant to help me how?" I question him as he leads me deeper into the heart of the replies with a simple squeeze of my hand which is still intertwined with his. A warmth rushes over me at the gesture and I thank the deities, which some insist on believing in, that I can no longer blush. I never was a blushing fool, not like those other twittering airheads who would stutter and swoon at anything with a dick, and I damn well ain't gonna start now. Dead or not. His message however is evident: Be quiet- you won't regret it. His curly dark blonde hair bobs as he crouches in front of a locked door in the basement which I had never noticed before. It is exquisitely well-disguised, and the only noticeable sign it really is a door is he hole, no more than a burrow made by the creepy crawlies, dug in a vaguely lock sized shape. He peers into the hole.

"Tate," I warn him, "Isn't this technically B&E, especially as you are the neighbour and I no longer am a resident." He shoots me a bemused glance: dark eyes piercing y chocolate ones.

"Violet, we're dead remember? Normal laws-" he smirks a little at the concept of abiding to such _human_ concepts "- don't apply to us anymore." I relax at this. takes my hand once more and we ghost through the door. A strange tingle, like walking though something wet and slimy, overtakes me and I shudder before I realise we're through.

Dust motes swirl in the vast room and my jaw drops at the contents of the room. Shelves and shelves of books and antiquities reach up and crawl along every surface of the cluttered space. The floor is a plush cream carpet which my shoes sink into as I step inside, fully corporeal once more. Despite the strangely misfitting carpet-ware, trinkets and books, my attention is imprisoned on the stainless steel countertops chock-full of chemicals. The liquids, some fluorescent others a dull rather rustic colour churn within intriguing machinery, inventions whirl and blueprints are dotted around at every spare space, crammed between new and old inventions. I drag my eyes from these and they land on a mound placed the far-right table. I trek hesitantly closer and the irrationally urge to cover my eyes and run screaming fills me as I finally comprehend I'm staring at a freaking frankenstein like body.

My breath hitches and bile rises in my throat at the corpse. Its hair is a shiny blue-black, its skin stretched tight and a light-green. It has no mouth, nose or ears and only two cat-slitted eyes which are open and glazed. It has clothes on to hide its body and I take assurance in that small mercy. It is grotesque, monstrous, terrifying. And no, I'd like to say that I'm no sissy so it wasn't an over-exaggeration. Tate squeezes my hand and tugs me back to his side when I attempt to approach the hideous creature.

"What the hell is that?" I hiss angrily "Why am I here? And how is this-" I wave at the _thing_ "-a reprieve from my tragic life. Death, whatever." I roll my eyes at the irony. Tate steps closer to me pressing his warm, solid (obviously corporeal) body against mine. I flush against him and my eyes drop to stare at his pale chest covered with some obscure band t-shirt.

"It used to belong to some mad scientist," he whispers to me, rather intimately "It's dead, don't worry… I mean completely dead, not ghost dead." For some completely whimsical moment my mind conjures the "Ghostbusters" theme tune and I almost break the intense moment with a completely un-ladylike snort. I'm interrupted of the song however, when his free hand (the one not holding hands with mine) cups my chin softly to tilt my head back up, so my eyes can meet his. He brings his face closer and closer and I swear I feel my heart flutter with a heady mix of excitement and anticipation. My pulse throbs and I mentally curse my entity for being so, so _human._ His lips curl into a wicked smile and my fears are confirmed. He knows, maybe he always knew, how badly I want him, how much I've _yearned_ for him this past year.

He brings his face closer and my heart jumps again in nervousness. His abyss-like eyes glimmer with playful trouble. My gaze is locked with his.I'm entwined- mesmerised- and I bite my lip to stop a whimper. He pauses when our lips are less than an inch apart and he murmurs: "I brought you down here for privacy. Up there-" his eyes leave mine and I push aside the idiotic pang of loss, to glance up above at the house chock-full of faceless crowds repeating useless condolences "-all they are doing is making a show of you and treating you and your death as a circus show."

"Because I commited suicide, right?" I snipe bitterly "Because I had a moment of weakness and was overcome by the hopelessness of lthe they onky see me with sorrow and pity and guilt. I feel lost Tate." I gulp at this but don't waver from Tate's steadying gaze.

"It's a filthy world." Tate responds detachedly "It's a filthy goddamn horror show." The words brush across my lips and I only realise I'm crying when his striking eyes become blurred and crystalline tears run down my cheeks.

Tate lifts his unusually gentle fingers to brush away the tears which stubbornly cling to my chin. My body trembles with a bittersweet ache of longing, regret and pain.

"You're not lost, Vi. You should never feel lost, not anymore. You are strong. You may have died a little with those pills but a part of you, was reborn. Don't you see, Vi? You're stronger, braver, wisened by both death and past experience. No, I'm not gonna label you-" a wry smile waltzes on his tempestuous lips "-after all that's for the shrinks like your dad to do. But you are coping. You've seen the horrors, many of which no others have dreamt of- no longer you are the same well-spoken ignorant girl I fell in love with when we first met." My soul ascends at the words "fell in love", but crashes down to the concrete reality of who she was and who I am now. I drop my gaze.

"I'm no longer that girl." I choke out quietly, brokenly. Tate lifts my chin again and I see a simmering determination stir within those hypnotic eyes.

"No, you're not." He concedes "The girl in front of me is much more flawed, tainted by loss and wisdom. Se is scarred by what life and sadly even death has served her. Yet, do you know what I see?"

"A lonely depressed ghost, broken and fragmented like a used doll?" I suggest cynically with an undertone of despair. He shakes his mop of blonde locks/

" No. I see a fierce, very sarcastic young woman aflame with radiance and made more perfect by who she's become. I'm irresistibly drawn by this otherworldly compassionate girl like a moth to her flame." The analogy startles me out of my witty retort, which dies a swift death on my tongue.

I'm all at once consumed by emotions so great and powerful I drown within them as wave after wave crashes over me. My heartbeat roars in my ears and the need to touch- to devour- the one person who manages to see inside me, right down to my bared soul, overwhelms me. Love. I'm sure, certain that is what I'm feeling.

I follow the impulse and press my eager lips to his. His body tenses in surprise but after a second he gets over it and responds by kissing me back with just as much passion and fervor. Our lips meld into one another and the world fades away until it's just us. Me and Tate. His hands lide around to grip my waist and pull me closer. I go willingly and allow my hands to cup his jaw and wind round his neck to feel his silky golden curls. We slant our heads to deepen the kiss and one of his hands cups my neck lovingly. His other hand, free from the hand-holding, slips under the hem of my t-shirt and I gasp against his mouth. A tremor of pure, unbridled _want_ shivers through my body and I open my mouth- challenging him to taste me.

Instead he bites gently on my lower lip and sucks- eliciting another moan from me. I feel the smirk, lovely and daring unfurl on his lips before he leaves mine. He then begins to tease me more by planting hot, brief kisses down my neck. I arch it back to grant better access and once more I feel him smile against the sensitive bart between my neck and shoulder. My breathing is heavy, almost panting and I smoulder at the horrifying realisation. I break away from him jerkily and my heart cracks a little at his confused abandoned stare. The self-consciousness floats away as easily as smoke in a breeze as I observe he is just as enamoured with me as I am him. _He looks like a kicked puppy_. I muse to myself internally. Not wanting to be apart any longer I lock my fingers with his and spontaneously twist him round and push him gently, yet firmly, against the door, effectively trapping my undead lover.

I smirk teasingly as I step up to him and but one fingers on his lips. UI then go on my tip-toes and breathe against his ear: "Let's see how you handle being the submissive one." I close the distance between us so our bodies are fully touching then trail my hands up and down the toned planes of his chest while reclaiming his mouth with a vengeance. His lips open obediently when I suck slightly on his lower lip and I pass the barrier eagerly. And then I finally taste him.

He tastes of dark chocolate, raspberries, sandalwood and something darker. Tastier. Our tongues fight for dominance and I feel him growl possessively against me. I feel his desire against my leg and I finally break off our intense make-up session to cure some light-headedness. I mutter shyly- "You might, uh, need a break because of uh- um…" Tate knows _exactly_ which anatomical reference I'm paying mention to but cruelly cocks an eyebrow in mock-innocence and denial.

"You should probably get a cold shower or something for your, uh-" I trail off uncertainly.

"My what?" He teases, tone smooth and temptingly wicked. I cross my arms and finally think _ah, what the hell._

"Your erection." I mouth, instantly nearly flaying alive with embarrassment at having to utter the words. Tate bursts out laughing and I mentally curse the handsome psychopath nearly pissing himself in amusement. I watch sulkily until he pulls himself together again, and cross my arms, rather petulantly.

"It's not funny." I proclaim with a scowl. Which of course makes him laugh even more. He tucks a stray strand of my hair behind my ear and my glare softens. I ease up considerably more when he stops laughing completely.

"Shall we continue our session?" He asks me, curiously hesitant for a devil-may-care ghost.

"Depends." I smile angelically at him.

"On what?" He wonders, slightly awed at my beatific smile and his voice hoarse in a fragile mixture of vulnerability and hope.

"On whether or not you'll behave." I continue, absolutely blase. He drops his eyes sheepishly and I get to tilt _his_ face up, a cute deja vu moment reminiscent of earlier.

"I'm joking." I say lightly "Kinda. I'd love to continue our 'session' but no sex okay. It feels-"

"-Too soon." He finishes wholeheartedly, understanding glinting in those emotive eyes. I nod agreeable. Then let out a giggle. Huh, who'd a guessed. That I the dead girl could giggle at her own funeral..?

"What is it?" He inquires, timidly.

"I just-" I say between giggles, "-find it a tad funny that I the 'broken doll' am making out with a hot ghost below my own funeral procession."

"How ironic." He chuckles wryly. I catch his eyes, full of mirth and love and feel that tickle of intimacy rise up once more within me. I feel blessed by this devil of a boy, inextricably bound in my heart despite his past sins and those which I do not yet know of and I cannot wait to start forever with him. The sarcastic devil. The boy I love, my salvation and my hope. My very own personal giggle at my own damn funeral…


End file.
